A Scandal of Romance
by JuubiOokami
Summary: Prequel to 'Hydrochloric Coffee', Based on 'A Scandal in Bohemia'. "We shared a brief romance." Holmes suddenly confessed, "But romance is an event, it is not a feeling." The story of how Sherlock met Irene Adler and the short romance that followed.
1. Chapter 1

**Good day my fellow fanfiction lovers! How are you all? I know it's a tad ****overdue but my computer has been working up. Finally, however, for your interest I present a prequel to 'Hydrochloric Coffee' which will shortly, I hope, be followed with a sequel.**

**This is set about three years before Sherlock knew Watson, nearer the beginning of his Detective career. The pairings are, if you squint really, really hard, Sherlock/Adler, and Sherlock/Lestrade-friendship. This fic deals with the 'Romance' that Sherlock spoke of in 'HC'. The pairing may very well change for the sequel as I'm a slash fan too. We shall see! **

**Ok, so this is a modern rewrite of Conan Doyle's 'Scandal in Bohemia.' I take no credit for the creation of any of the characters but my own. I hope that you all enjoy.**

**If you would like an idea of the Song that Irene sings please look up 'Diva's Song' on Youtube from the anime 'Blood +'. **

**Warning – Mentions of selfharm/Drug use/other random stuff, but the rating is mostly because I'm paranoid. ENJOY. **

**PART ONE**

Sherlock Holmes did not run away from challenges. It was a common fact. The nature of those challengers could vary, alter and mutate, but if they were deemed fit enough to be worthy of the effort of his attention, then he could never say no.

The problem was that Mycroft knew this.

Of course Sherlock liked to sustain the idea that his brother had no power over him, but just as Sherlock had methods of manipulation so did Mycroft, and as long as you knew the detective well enough it was easy to worm your way into his interest.

Sherlock had a handful of methods which he deployed to ensure the safety of his intellect and to create the divide between himself and his overbearing brother, but these weren't always successful. Of course the cocaine had its benefits, but it could not physically hold Mycroft back, where as hiding from him for days on end could. If there was one thing that Sherlock prided himself on, it was his ability to 'disappear'.

Of course Lestrade didn't always totally agree with these methods of escape, especially when they meant that he would come home to find the infamous Sherlock Holmes curled up on his sofa, empty bottle in hand, fast asleep, having broken in through the window. But Lestrade could not deny Sherlock sanctuary – he was almost the stupid, unthinking brother that Sherlock had never had. He was certainly kind enough.

But of course Sherlock always found himself growing bored, and it was at those times that Mycroft would strike.

It had been a careless Sunday afternoon when Holmes, bored out of his mind, had found himself strewn across the floor of a shabby apartment he rented. He had been reverting to methods of self-harm and abusive conversations with 'the skull' to keep himself entertained, when the letter had come through.

A ticket to see a concert at the Royal Opera house that evening, along with a message signed 'Yours – anonymous.'

Of course Sherlock had known it was Mycroft, but boredom and curiosity had gotten the better of him so that, despite his fugue with his brother, he had found himself preparing to go to the concert he had been invited to.

With the air of someone who hadn't spent the previous day experimenting with cocaine and ranting to inanimate objects, Sherlock left his flat and took a walk down toward the Thames, striding through London deep in thought. His brother had sent the message to him typed, which meant that rather then it being a gesture of peace or a formal invitation, it was a request. But what was so important about the concert?

With over hour until the concert officially began, Sherlock, despite his evening dress, trespassed down through the roads into the heart of London, almost as if he were tying to get lost - which, of course, was impossible. The man knew every single road in the city – it was a hobby of his to memorise them. The dark roads around were filled with shady looking characters squabbling loudly and hurrying passer byes – the street was filled with an air of malice.

But it was no deterrent for Sherlock. Struck with the sudden craving for adventure Holmes' pace automatically quickened, as if did when he was on the hunt. He felt animalistic almost, like a predator, undaunted by the ruckus around him. It was only a matter of time before he would be on the chase, he could feel it, Mycroft had invited him to the concert for a reason.

And if it wasn't a good reason then Holmes would just have to get his riding crop and go and beat the other for wasting his time.

Not to say that he was not a music fan – he was a fanatic, as it were. Sometimes, when the mood took him, he spend night after night trailing through an array of different operas and concerts for the euphoria that music simply gave him, where as at other times, when his mind was sharp and he needed action and danger, the music had to be hand picked, had to be appropriate. A little Beethoven perhaps to tighten the strings of his tense mind. And at that moment, having spent an entire week strewn in the bohemian setting of his mind, he needed something dramatic and filled with emotions to help trigger his racing brain.

With a quick peek to his watch he straightened himself out and, glancing to his surroundings, began to orientate his way back down Bloomsbury St. He would make it in plenty of time, but he preferred to be prompt to these occasions rather than late. After all something was going to happen tonight and he wanted to see his hunting ground.

Reaching the Opera House he stalked across the road, hands in pockets and walked hurriedly up the stairs, his eyes darting subtly all around to the crowd surrounding.

Making his way forward he settled for a glass of wine before the performance began and stood, spying on the people all around and accessing the nature of the concert from the snippets of conversation he could hear.

Suddenly from amongst the gaggle a familiar face appeared and Sherlock raised his eyebrows slightly at the image of Lestrade looking vaguely out of place with an elderly lady at his arm – his mother, judging from the identically coloured eyes and the similar features. The Detective watched them until, by chance, Lestrade looked up and caught his eyes. Almost immediately the older man paled and Sherlock smiled, leaving his empty glass and approaching. He wasn't much of a socialite – he preferred the company of his skull to humanities in general, but there were a select few who merited his conversation. Of course this often caused a huge misconception amongst his peers, because whilst he insisted that he _did_ enjoy conversing, he often vocalised also that he had little patience for fools. It was pity really, because he wasn't the recluse that people assumed he must be, but rather was easily bored and sensitive to the harsh stupidity of the common folk around him.

"Sherlock." Lestrade nodded to him in greeting and Holmes smiled eloquently in return.

"Good evening Inspector Lestrade, I didn't expect to see you down here." He said, his voice collected and richly pronounced with specific attention to diction. "Your mother is a fan of the opera then? Good evening Madam."

Lestrade paled a little further, as the very lady looked up, eyebrows raised. "Good evening young man, might I inquire as to who _you_ are, as Graham did not inform me we would be meeting friends of his."

"It was all perfectly unintentional Mrs. Lestrade, though it couldn't have worked out better in my opinion. It's an absolute pleasure to meet you." Holmes shook her hand, finishing his deductions about the woman with the quick touch. She was nearing eighty, so said the neat style of her clothes. She'd lived through the repercussions of the war, a fact made clear by the careful way she had repaired and restyled her dress, rather then buy a new one – clearly a woman who had grown up on low rations. She was wearing a male wedding ring along with hers on her wedding finger, showing that she was a widow, yet the impeccable shine upon both rings suggested that she was no longer grieving, but rejoicing her husband's life – he died several years ago. So she was independent and unattached. Other than that the softness of her hands suggested that she lived life easily probably with hired help, yet her grip was strong meaning she once worked with her fingers. The hardness at the tip of her left index finger suggested a seamstress. Sherlock smiled courteously to her. "I see you've just travelled from Scotland, were you on holiday there?"

"Well, how on earth did you know that?" She asked, amazed.

"Lucky guess really, I noticed that you had a faint accent, not strong enough to be yours, but present enough to be from a recent escapade."

"Oh, I see." She nodded slowly, her eyes upon him, "You must be _him_."

Sherlock paused, eyebrows raised before turning to Lestrade in mock horror. "Oh dear, have you been talking about me?"

"You might have come into our conversation once or twice, yes." Lestrade responded, his eyes averted as Sherlock looked back toward the woman.

"I'm distraught." He stated, "Despite how the Inspector might have recounted some of our dealings, I'm not a totally appalling human being, please be assured of that."

"Oh no, Graham was very praising of you." She responded and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, glancing back to the Inspector who still refused to meet his eyes.

"Oh really?" He smirked slightly, "How kind." Holmes turned back toward her with a charming smile. "Allow me introduce myself formally to you then – my name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Eliza Lestrade." She replied, "Are you here to see the show tonight, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, I was invited to come."

"By whom?"

"My brother, I think." He added. "He often sends me tickets to shows he thinks I will appreciate."

"Well that's kind of him."

"Yes. Very kind." Holmes looked briefly around to the rapidly filling hallway before glancing back to Eliza, "Might I offer you a drink?"

"Oh, that is very good of you, yes please – a white wine will do."

"Of course."

"Hang on, I'll be right back Mother." Lestrade caught up with Holmes and together they walked toward the bar.

"Praising me, were you?" Sherlock said the moment they were out of ear-shot, his voice losing some of its hypnotic charm.

"Oh shut it – what are you doing here Sherlock?"

"I already told you, Mycroft sent me a ticket."

"Is that so? Well, I don't mean to be rude, but I wasn't under the impression that you and your brother were close."

"We're not – Two whites if you please, and…What would you like Lestrade?"

"Make it a Guinness." Lestrade told the waiter before turning back to Holmes with a serious expression, "What's going on then?"

Sherlock paused, "I'm not sure." He responded, "I haven't been told anything."

"Well, do you have some sort of idea yet?"

"None, but I'm sure all will soon become clear – thank you." He accepted the drinks and paid accordingly, ignoring Lestrade who went to get out some of his own money. "In any case you can relax, I'm not planning anything – as far as I know all I have to do is watch the show."

Lestrade frowned, clearly a little distressed as Sherlock passed him his drink and the pair walked back toward Eliza who was waiting patiently.

"Here you are." He passed her the drink and she gratefully accepted it, beaming him a warming smile. For a time after that he stood with them and chatted until even Lestrade relaxed a little and Holmes was sure he had left a good impression of himself upon Eliza. As the time passed however a man entered the Opera House amongst a gaggle, wearing what could almost be described as costume. Holmes attention immediately snapped toward him, struck by the almost outrages attire that the man was wearing. It was of a rich make, yet the design and extensity of the decoration upon the suit were so much that one could almost say they degraded the quality of the piece. It was clearly foreign work, the fashion far too bright for the dreary English tradition and Holmes felt his mouth twitch a little with a smile. He knew a disguise when he saw one.

"Lestrade." He said, causing the other to turn to him, "I lied."

"Pardon?"

"I _do_ have an idea as to the nature of my visit." He said softly, and then left it at that, his eyes lingering over the foreign man as he disappeared in amongst the crowd again.

It was only as they were going to their seats that Sherlock's suspicions were answered. Having given his ticket to the seat-director the man had promptly called to two boys at the side to accompany Sherlock elsewhere. Holmes had parted with Eliza gracefully, making an excuse that he must have mistaken seats, and gave an apprehensive looking Lestrade one final smile, eyes alight, before he was lead away.

Following the boys Holmes took great care to note his surroundings before he was shown into a private box and left.

Sat before him the richly dressed man who he had perceived previously glanced around to him slowly, eyes gleaming in the low staging light. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes, I presume." His voice was deep and accented, confirming the last of Holmes' deductions.

"At your service."

"Do take a seat."

Sherlock nodded and sat down, stretching his legs before him as he put his fingers together, observing the other man.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"No." He replied promptly, but his tone was light and easy.

"Your brother has told you nothing then."

"I believe he entrusted that task to you." Sherlock tapped his index fingers, "Please speak freely to me, and I will try to assist you in anyway I can."

"Very well. I come representing a man whose identity I must withhold. The issue with which I would like to speak is of great importance and threatens to disturb the balance of the Spanish monarchy."

"I see." Sherlock nodded slowly, "You've grave problem at hand then, your highness."

There was a shocked pause, and then the man leapt to his feet, "There is no point in trying to hide it – where is the shame in my identity? I was told you were a clever man, I can see that my disguise is useless."

"Only to the trained eye, Sire, though I must be sure – I am to believe I have the pleasure of speaking with the Prince Arnaldo, fifth heir to the Spanish throne, do I not?"

"It is an honour to meet you, Sherlock Holmes." The two shook hands and the Prince seated himself again.

"You are taking many risks to meet me here Sire, might I ask after the nature of your problem?" Holmes asked.

"Ah, the nature of my problem…It is scandal, Mr. Holmes, scandal of the worst kind."

"Might I wager a guess?"

The Prince gave him a withered look and nodded his head, prompting the other into speech.

"Judging from the fact that you came in disguise, and that you are reported to be in Spain at the moment, and due to the absence of your wife, I can only access that your problem lies with another woman."

"You read me like a book."

"I read facts Sire, and the facts only." Sherlock replied curtly, "Please explain."

"Very well. Performing tonight is one Irene Adler, a woman of great talent."

"And beauty, I gather."

"Quite. She and I had a small…Relationship, if you will, some years back. I lent her some money too, money that did not belong to me."

"Oh dear."

"The entire ordeal was cleared up, I made sure every penny was repaid and went to great efforts to forget her and to continue with my life – she was frowned upon by my parents, but they never saw the extent of my affection for her."

"And neither did you wife."

"Quite…" He appeared somewhat crestfallen for a moment, before breathing a sigh and continuing. "The fact of the matter was that there were some…photographs taken."

"Compromising photographs, I take it?"

"Yes." He paused, "When I broke all ties with her I destroyed all of them, but…recently I have discovered that there was one I missed."

"And the Lady has hold of it?"

"Yes." Arnaldo broke off, and then sighed. "We never had any more of a relationship that any other man or woman would and I was never unfaithful either to my wife…But none the less Adler has been blackmailing me with the remaining photograph. She means to destroy my marriage out of womanly spite."

"Only out of spite?"

"She doesn't demand anything, she simply threatens."

"She doesn't demand _anything?_" Holmes raised his eyebrows with doubt and the Prince sighed.

"There is little point lying to you-" He began.

"-Little point indeed." Holmes agreed starkly and Arnaldo sighed once more.

"I have in my possession a diamond."

"I see."

"A very large diamond."

"Ah."

"A diamond that has belonged in my wife's family for many years."

Sherlock smiled, "Already the mystery is becoming quite clear to me." He leant back, "So this Irene Adler is demanding the diamond in return for her silence."

"That is correct."

"And it pains you because that Diamond belongs to you only as long as your wife is with you."

"Yes…"

"So either lose only the diamond, or lose your wife and also the diamond." Sherlock couldn't keep the glee from his voice. Arnaldo gave the Detective a pitiful look of dread and nodded his head slowly. "You have put yourself in quite a fix, your highness."

"I've tried to have the photograph stolen, Mr. Holmes, on numerous occasions – but she is a crafty woman and has evaded all attempts." Arnaldo fretted, "Your brother was good enough to direct me to you."

"And what would you give me in return for doing the deed."

"I would give one of my provinces for that photograph!" Arnaldo cried and Holmes raised a sceptical eyebrow at this overdramatic exclamation before shaking his head.

"Poetic, but impractical," He stated, "I haven't room for one."

"You mock me Mr. Holmes, and rightly so – I have been a fool." The Prince sighed and Sherlock looked toward the stage, watching with vacant eyes as the orchestra below him played, unnoticed by the trill of thought in his mind. "Oh, but what I would give you Mr. Holmes if you succeed."

"I've yet to decide on whether or not to take the job, your Highness." Sherlock stated, almost coldly. "Tell me - where, might I ask, is Miss. Adler now?"

"She will sing soon – she has the voice of an angel – but the heart of a devil."

"I'm sure." Even as Holmes said it the room was filled with the roar of applause and a young woman walked upon the stage. Sherlock could not deny there was a vague charm about her. She was a dainty thing with a kind, warm expression and a heart-shaped face emphasising a sweetness about her. The pale complexion, broken by two spots of rose pink at her high cheeks, and her soft, vacant eyes robbed her of any chance of actual beauty however, categorizing her as 'cute' instead. Despite this asset however, when she moved, it was with a subtle grace and confidence – as expected from a performer and one couldn't deny that she showed no shyness coming up before such an extensive audience. Sherlock almost grumbled with boredom, so much for devious, the woman had no presence about her what so ever. Stopping at the front of the stage she stood, wearing a long white robe that complimented her physique, and waited for the music to begin. Sherlock, who was rapidly beginning to lose interest, glanced over her face again, trying to deduce what he could of her. Her strawberry-pink hair was wrong for her visage. It had the affect of making her look childlike and almost a little plump around the cheeks, whilst the shine around her eyes made her look like she had just left secondary school. Perhaps she had, Sherlock had not asked after the Prince's taste in women.

And then something changed. The oboe which had been playing the melody above the strings drew to an end and the room seemed to breathe in expectancy. Irene opened her mouth with a soft sigh and began, gently supported by the strings which played the bass bellow her, the wind instruments easing their way in to join the melody.

Irene's voice was soft, yet more mature than he had first thought it would be. She had the warmth of an alto, but she sang the higher notes with the clarity of a bird, almost humming them to herself with the ease of first soprano.

The beginning was slow, building atmosphere with a gentle lull as Irene began to sing the words of the song, following the melody the oboe had previously played. Her voice, despite its quietness, managed to fill the room so that Sherlock was struck by the power underlining it.

Then the music changed, becoming a little more urgent, louder and passionate as Irene began to open her mouth a little more, allowing the sound to be released from within her, the support from her stomach making each note strong, each word said with conviction. Yet the charm and beauty of the build up was nothing when, in a fatal swoop, the music grew to a forte and she rang out with a single pure cry, the crescendo sending tremors through the body as once more the build up was repeated and Irene sang, filled with passion, her expression twisted with conviction as she sang the angry, malice filled song, easily singing through fast, complex runs as she threw her arms out open. In an instant the orchestra was forgotten, Holmes could only see her, his eyes transfixed. Because she had changed, the music had changed her, thrown her into a new light. And she was everything the Prince had said, and more. Bearing her soul in her voice, Holmes could see the mind beneath, the power, the deception she threw over herself to hide the deviousness within. She was every bit the devil that Arnaldo had said - she was passion itself, a manifestation in human form. His heart leapt into his mouth, and he was unable to stop a shuddering gasp escape his lips as the song came to its dramatic finale, Irene dropping her head as the lights fell down upon her.

Gladly for the Detective the sound of his amazement went quite unheard over the cacophony of appreciation and applause that followed Irene's finish. From beside him Arnaldo clapped with great gusto, eyes filled with admiration and Sherlock was granted a moment to compose himself and calm his racing heart. The music had filled him with energy, with the thrill of the chase that he had desired.

Without a moment's hesitation he turned toward the Prince, "I will take the case." He said matter-of-factly and, once more, Arnaldo leapt to his feet and shook his hand warmly.

"Thank you Mr. Holmes! Thank you! Here is a deposit check for 10,000 pounds as way of a starter. When I have the photograph I will pay you in full."

"Very well." Holmes took the check, "Then I have one more thing to request of you."

"That is?"

"Organise for me to meet Miss. Adler, as a nameless fan, backstage at the end of the concert."

"Certainly." Arnaldo said, perplexed, "But won't that make your intention clear to her?"

"Not at all." Holmes said with a smile, "Not at all."

Wearing his most modest expression he could muster, Sherlock was let into Irene's room, his head slightly bowed as he stood in a way which would make him appear older and also somewhat smaller. Irene was busy tidying when he entered, but he saw that she glanced carefully to him before turning to him warmly.

Up close he could see that her hair was dyed, and had been done so recently as well.

"Gracious, I'm such a mess." She said sweetly, her voice hinted slightly – New Jersey, if Holmes was correct, yet already from her singing Sherlock knew that she was more that capable of changing her accent. The slight American tint could easily be false. "I do hope you enjoyed the show, Mr-…?"

"Banks." Holmes replied, raising the tone of his voice and hushing it. "Benjamin Banks, M'am."

"Oh well, Benjamin – do you mind if I call you that?"

"Please do."

"Do come in, can I offer you some wine?" She went toward an opened bottle on her desktop and Holmes was given another chance to study her. Despite the obvious that she was well kept, Sherlock could see she was a careful woman – she had wiped herself clean of all evidence. Her appearance was blank as a slate, and the entire set up of her dress room was fake. He could see, however, that she was a neat and efficient woman – she hung her clothes up tidily in a wardrobe, and her makeup was stacked in height order along her vanity desk. Acts of an obsessive compulsive, or had she simply been bored whilst waiting? "Mr Banks?" She offered him a glass and he took it with a quiet thank you.

"You are quite a singer, Miss. Adler."

"Oh please – Irene."

"Irene." He toasted her, "I was quite…blown away by your performance." He said, with some measure of truth in his words.

"Why thank you, I do try." She smiled prettily to him. "Is this your first time hearing me sing?"

"It is indeed."

"It's good of you to come back and congratulate me." She turned back to her dresser and began to pick at some of the things on it, tidying them away into a draw.

"I felt obliged to." He responded, "Your performance was really quite stunning." He sipped his wine carefully, searching for any trace of drug – he'd made that mistake before. "Tell me, Irene, are you in London long?"

"Oh, well I just moved here." She replied, "I've been for three months now, though I also came to school here as a child, so I've spent more time in England than at home."

"Where is home?"

"I travel a great deal, but my parents lived in New Jersey – I was born there."

"I see." Holmes nodded, gathering his thoughts. "And why the move? For your career?"

"Oh no." She replied, her face flushing slightly with sudden euphoria, "I came to marry."

"Marry?" He glanced to her hands, but she bore no ring. "When is the happy date?"

"It was just last month." She replied, "He's a busy man, so we're waiting to go on our honeymoon – not that I mind, my schedule was so full this week." She said, before producing a ring from around a chain at her neck. Slipping it on she showed Holmes who admired it. "I take it off to sing, for some reason I feel as if jewellery obstructs my voice – I don't like clutter."

"No indeed." Holmes noted the expense of the ring, and the perfect fit it had on her finger.

"But tell me more about yourself Benjamin, are you from London?"

"Yes, though I lived abroad also from a young child." He lied easily, "When I a baby my parents were stationed in India, I too was sent to school in England when I was old enough." He took another sip of wine.

"So we're the same." Irene beamed childishly, "What do you do for work?"

"I work a small editorial business, rather dull sadly – I'd hoped to be a writer you see, but I never had the patience." He said and she raised her eyebrows.

"Well, there's time left – who knows, the feeling might strike you. Where do you live?"

"Baker St." Holmes stated, thinking of the rooms that one of his previous clients was renting. It was vacant, but he could easily tell her to lie, should the need come. "I am in the process of moving though, looking for somewhere a little larger."

"The wife wants more space?" Irene teased and Holmes looked to his feet.

"Sadly, no wife." He said, "I thought that, perhaps…Well, that is to say there was a woman, but she and I…Well, it didn't work out." He gave her a smile, every essence of his being set to his act.

"Oh, I am sorry." Irene looked genuinely saddened, "If I wasn't attached I'd take you out myself, not that you would want that, of course." She giggled and went back to her dresser.

"I am an envious man of your husband." Sherlock stated, "What is his name?"

"Fredrick Norton."

"He is a lucky man indeed." Sherlock said charmingly before nodding his head. "I feel that I should go, I have friends waiting for me. Once again congratulations, and I hope to meet you again some day Miss. Adler."

"That would be nice, I look forward to it." She shook his hand, and he kissed hers before leaving, a smile upon his face.

Making his way back through into the auditorium he noticed that Lestrade was waiting for him, along with Eliza, and he joined them, still looking faintly pleased. The rest of the room was all but empty, with a few stragglers enjoying drinks or putting their coats on.

"Where have you been?" Lestrade asked, watching Holmes with a mixture of worry and curiosity.

"I went to congratulate one of the performers." Holmes replied, and his smile elongated a little, "I introduced myself as Benjamin Banks, and should anyone ask I live in Baker St." He said looking down to Eliza with an excited sparkle in his eye.

"Why would you do that?" Eliza asked, perplexed as beside her Lestrade straightened, his arms folded.

"Oh, who knows." Holmes shrugged, "I'm a bit of a theatrical myself. Sometimes the feeling just takes me." He shook Eliza's hand steadily. "In any case I must dash, things to do, people to see, mysteries to solve. It was a pleasure meeting you, perhaps I will see you again."

"Well, you really are an excitable young man." Eliza commented before smiling gently to him. "Take care of yourself then, Mr. Banks." She jibed and his smile widened even further.

"That's the spirit." He looked to Lestrade. "I will probably see you tomorrow."

"God help me." Lestrade shook his hand, "Thanks for the drink."

"Pas de problème." He waved it off, before starting out into the night, his coat flaring behind him as he hurried through the dark streets, excitement burning through him.

The games had only just begun.

**Please review and tell me what y'all think! I look forward to hearing from you all!**

**Much thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the massive delay of posting this chapter! I have been swamped with little to no time. I hope you all enjoy this chapter!**

**Disclaimer – I don't own Sherlock or any of the Canon characters in any sense, this is simply for story telling purposes. **

**Enjoy!**

The conquest to find Fredrick Norton began early the next day when Holmes, riveting with excitement, found himself all but skipping down to Scotland Yard to meet with Lestrade. Sally Donavon, the new Sergeant, had met him at the doorway where he surprised her with a chirpy greeting and sailed past before she had a chance to retort. Holmes was in too good a mood to stop and make inane deductions about her – there was work to be done, after all.

Reaching Lestrade's doorway he let himself in without knocking and caught the Inspector on the phone. Taking a seat he waited patiently for his companion to be finished with his business, and took to nosing through a cabinet of case files to his left. Lestrade had long since learnt to accept this behaviour and made little effort to stop him.

Finally, with a satisfying click Lestrade ended his call and turned toward the Detective who flashed him a smile, closing the cabinet with a flick of the wrist.

"Good morning Inspector, and what a wonderful morning it is." He sang so that the other sighed, putting his head in his hands and running his fingers up through his hair.

"Oh Gods, you've got a new case."

"That I do." Sherlock said, "And for once I need _your_ help – yes yes, don't give me that look, I know it's surprising, but you have one thing that I don't."

"Which is?"

"Records!" Sherlock cried, "I need you to tell me whatever you can about a man named Fredrik Norton – baring in mind this might not be his actual name." Sherlock lent back in the chair, putting his feet up on the desk. "Go."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows wearily and also lent back, opening one of the draws of his desk. "Fredrick Norton, eh?"

"Yes, I am almost certain you will find some case files about him – he should be a criminal. Though, as I said, they might be under a different name." Sherlock paused, "Do you think you can help?"

"I can try. But I need a little more from your Sherlock."

"Very well, he is married to one 'Irene Adler', one the performers last night – she had a different stage name, but I didn't see what it was. Irrelevant, they were married recently, a month back."

Lestrade nodded slowly, "Alright…I think that should be enough. Was it a local marriage?"

"Yes, she was singing at the Opera House at the time, and he was busy. They wouldn't have had time to go away. Also, I imagine it was a small ordeal – kept very quiet – straight to the magistrate's office no doubt."

"Fine." Lestrade wrote down several of the facts and dropped his pen, "I'll get on the phone and start looking."

"Excellent. Well then, I'm off to go and find out where they live." Holmes smiled and Lestrade groaned slightly.

"No breaking an entry, alright?" He begged, "Please. I've got enough to deal with without having to cover you for breaking the law."

"Relax Lestrade, it only counts if I get caught." He winked, "And if I go into the house, it will be invited, rest assure. Now…as for that Beanie hat on your desk goes, I know it's a piece of evidence, but you won't get much from it – it's brand new and doesn't look like it's been worn – a completely false lead, I can assure you of that."

Lestrade picked at the said item dejectedly. "Really?"

"Sadly, yes." Holmes said, almost solemnly.

"Then it _is_ no use to us." Lestrade grunted bitterly as Sherlock leant in.

"What a pity. In which case, with that sad truth in mind, may I borrow it?"

Lestrade stared to him in silence, mouth wide. "…What?"

xXXXx

With an old, fraying coat, beanie over head, and fingerless gloves adorning his hands all it took was for Holmes to rub his face until it was red, give himself a few lines around the eyes with eye liner to enforce the image of fatigue, and stumble into the street bottle in hand. Making his way amongst the crowd he made it his task to cause the most disturbance and awkwardness possible for his passer byes, secretly revelling at the drunk behaviour he was displaying.

It did not take long to find a corner filled with the homeless, relatively close to the Opera House. He joined the gathered group who squabbled and spoke, some already drunk as lords, others with more wits about them. It was easy enough for Sherlock to step into line with them, his skills at acting were extraordinary, and it was not difficult to mimic their behaviour and speech pattern.

Speaking with them he asked if any spent any time outside of the Opera House. A few commented on the snobbish behaviour of those who visited such a place and Holmes worked with this, heartily agreeing until a friendly dispute was struck up about the kinds of people who went.

Eventually the topic turned to the nice ones who did leave a tip or two when they passed and Sherlock seized his chance and remarked on the lovely Irene Adler who always dropped him a few coins. His words were immediately met with a cheer as they all readily agreed, the kind, wonderful Adler who spoke to them sweetly and would leave them all love struck. She was an angel – they all said so and Holmes found it easy to manipulate the conversation from there.

He discovered that Adler was living in a rented house near Piccadilly, behind New Bond St. She rarely left her home apart from in the evenings when she was singing and at three o'clock precisely where she'd go out for a coffee in town. Holmes had struck gold.

"Did you hear?" He began, his voice gruff.

"Hear what?"

"About her harasser?" He spoke angrily, and recounting a story of a horrible man who was pressurising Adler for money and went everyday to see her – hence the reason she left the house always at three to avoid him. His audience was horrified to hear of the terrible being who could be cruel to such a kind woman. Holmes spoke with spite and resentment leaving a bitter trail in his voice. "I know his name too – Banks. Benjamin Banks."

The name caused uproar as angry whispers filled the group until one gathered up the courage to shout something which sounded vaguely like 'We should get him.'

The exclamation caused a riot amongst the others who began to become rallied up, plotting in loud voices. Holmes spoke again.

"He'll be visiting her this afternoon – we should get him there." Sherlock suggested and was greeted with hearty agreement. Mission accomplished Holmes stayed a few minutes longer, and then slipped away when the crowd had calmed once more. At the edge of the wall he was met with a bright eyed young woman who raised a quizzical eyebrow to him, seeing through his act as clear as day, and to his true identity.

"An enemy of yours?" She asked and Sherlock simply smiled, stepping out the line of vision of the others and removing his hat and gloves.

"Can you rally them up again when the time comes?"

"Sure, for a price." She waggled her eyebrows, a crooked smile on her face. Holmes drew his mouth into a line, but his eyes were alight as he passed over several notes to her, and the remains in the bottle he was holding. "What do you want?"

"Nothing too serious." He replied, "I just need him to be shaken up a little – get them running before too much harm is done."

"Sure." She leant back against the wall, counting the money. "Anything else?"

"Yes, but this job is just for you." He pulled from his pocket two smoke bombs and pressed them into her hands. "I need you to do exactly as I tell you."

xXXXx

Leaning back against the wall Holmes assessed his position before, with a soft sigh stooped his physique a little and pulled his plain black coat tighter around him. He had donned a turtle neck jumper and left his scarf at home, although his throat felt oddly bare without it. The clothing would subtly create a softer appearance about him, in contrast to the sharp, official look he usually had when he was wearing his usual suit. It also made him look a little plumper than his skeletal form actually was.

Straightening himself out he moved to stride across the street when his phone began to ring in his pocket, causing him to halt and drag it out with irritation. Glancing down to the caller ID he snarled, before jumping back into a dark corner and answering.

"What is it Mycroft?"

"Ah, Sherlock – how are you?"

"I haven't time for your pleasantries, I'm busy. So unless you're calling to say that the earth is about to collide with the sun, I'm not interested!" He hissed, ending the call rapidly with his eyes on the time. He was almost a minute off schedule now – why had he even bothered answering! He had one minute less to engage in a real looking squabble before the patrolling police officer arrived – curse Mycroft's interferences!

Moving back out into the street he made for Irene's House with a face set with mean determination. From the corner he saw his watchman raise her eyebrows to him, and he gave her a subtle nod so that, with a smirk, she cried out and pointed toward him angrily.

"That's 'im! That's Banks right there!"

The reaction was immediate. Several thuggish looking men appeared in the street, though – Holmes noted dryly – not as many as he had rallied that morning. Still, it was quite more than enough. He glanced to his watch again – 2:58. Perfect. He'd been watching the House all afternoon to ensure Adler did not leave, and now when she was about to his plan would fall into place.

"You Ben Banks!" The first drunk met him head on so that Sherlock was forced to step back to avoid a collision.

"I beg your pardon?" he remarked, sneering.

"We've heard you've been giving the Lady some trouble. Thought we might tell you to back off."

"Get out of my way, you filthy peasants." Holmes cried fiercely, shoving at the large man. Almost immediately the punch was coming in toward his head and Sherlock had to dodge or else be taken out completely. It would appear that his set up was going to be a tad more realistic than he should have liked. But the young man was quick on his feet, and dodging past the first attack he launched a light punch of his own to keep his attacker's spirits up. The effect was emphasised brilliantly when a right hook to the stomach caught him unawares, causing him to double over. Instinct almost took him over in an instant, but he controlled himself and allowed his body to drop – he was _meant_ to lose this fight after all.

With a grunt he fell to the pavement, forcing himself to relax as a kick came straight into his stomach once more, leaving him gasping for air as another boot came down toward his head. He pulled his face back immediately so that the boot only caught his nose, causing him to slam his temple into the tarmac below. The world went momentarily white and then a shrill cry came from above him, and several blasts of a police whistle.

Within an instant there was someone at his side, turning him onto his back as he blinked at the sharp brightness of the surrounding world.

"Sir, sir can you hear me?" the Police officer was close to him now and Sherlock prayed that he did not know the man.

"Oh…Oh, yes…Yes, I can." He breathed, blinking rapidly before sitting up so that the world spun around him. "God…I…Lord, what happened?"

"You were attacked sir, can you tell me your name?"

"Benjamin Banks." He replied just as a womanly voice caught his attention from the left.

"Oh God, Mr. Banks, is that you? Are you alright!" Irene was stood, hand to mouth in shock as he glanced to her, one eye squinted.

"Miss Adler?" He enquired, as if he were surprised.

"Hold on, let me call an ambulance." She went to her purse, but he hurriedly stopped her.

"No, no!" He said quickly, "Please…there's no need for that. I…I was simply shocked."

"You've been badly beaten sir, it would be better-" The policeman began but Holmes interjected.

"-No. I'm fine, really. Just a little shocked. I'll be fine in a moment, I just need a little sugar." He said with sincerity as the Officer pulled back, unsure. Sherlock pushed a little further. "Besides, those thugs are still on the loose – what if they should attack someone else. I'll come down to the police station later and make an official report, but you had better get after them for now."

"Right." The police officer, a young naïve looking thing, nodded and set off at a run after the thugs who had disappeared into the city. The poor Sod was not to know he would never find them. Sherlock glanced back to Irene who stared down to him sceptically.

"That wasn't right of you, you know," She began, "Sending him off like that. You really should think of yourself a little more – that was an awful attack."

"I'll be fine soon enough." Sherlock replied softly before standing and wobbling drastically to the side, only half-faking. Irene caught his shoulders, her lips pursed.

"Come on." She prompted, "Come into my apartment – there isn't much, but you can rest there a while at least."

"Thank you." He said, face filled with gratitude as inwardly he smirked. The first part of his plan had been a tremendous success.

Following Irene up the stairs he made sure to maintain his slight slump and keep his disguise constant. Adler let him into the small tidy ground floor apartment and he glanced around.

The entire place was sparse, with little to no decoration and moderate furniture. Her kitchen was white, with a single plastic pull out table, a coffee machine in the corner, and several cupboards filled with identically manufactured cups and plates. The place looked positively uninhabited.

Adler noticed his attention to the lack of, well, anything and smiled to him. "I keep a clear shop."

"I can see that."

"It's dull sometimes but…Well, I'm always on the move. I found that it's easier if I don't have lots of things cluttering the house up." She admitted, and Holmes detected, for only a second, a small underlying tone of regret. "What can I get you to drink?"

"Coffee." He said, "As I see you at least have that."

Irene laughed and began to prepare the beverage as Holmes sat down, touching a hand to his face with a wince – that was going to bruise badly.

"How's your face?" Adler turned around to him with a soft smile.

"You'll have to tell me."

"Well, you look dashing." She replied, "But a little beaten up."

"Sounds about right." He put on a modest light chuckle and touched a hand to the injured side of his face. "Am I bleeding?" He asked as he touched a patch of wet.

"Your cheek's grazed."

"Wonderful – I won't hear the end of it at work." He mumbled, half-truthfully as Irene glanced around to him.

"How do you like your coffee?"

"Black - two sugars." He requested, before adding, "-Please."

Irene complied, stirring the beverage before seating herself opposite the man with her own cup, pushing his toward him. "Here."

"Thank you." He repeated, cupping it in his hands. Just as he did Irene's phone began to ring in her pocket, singing out a ridiculous representation of Bach's fugue. She answered it promptly, and held it to her ear.

"Hello? Hi there Freddy. What? Oh, oh – honey, I'm sorry, didn't I tell you? I have a rehearsal at the moment. Yes – Melissa came around to help me, she's such a sweet thing – Oh, don't be angry sweetie, it must have slipped my mind. Tell you want, I'll meet you at five, how about that? Alright. Bye bye." She hung up and replaced her phone in her purse, a slightly sour look on her face. Holmes watched her curiously.

"Why did you lie?"

"Hm?" She looked up to him as he leant in.

"Freddy – your husband, why did you lie to him?" He asked, for a moment forgetting the act he was meant to be holding. Irene blinked to him curiously and then shrugged.

"Oh, well Freddy's lovely and very kind, but he doesn't get half jealous when I'm with other men. It's silly really, he doesn't trust me not to be swept off my feet."

"Are you often swept off your feet?"

"Oh – well he imagines me to be a terrible romantic, easily swayed." She sipped her coffee and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, leaning back.

"But you're not." He responded quietly, "Not in the least."

Again Irene blinked, startled by this claim, before a soft smile adorned her features and she looked down to her cup. "To tell you the truth, no." She admitted, "But I do what I have to and get by." She dropped her gaze to the table, "I think he thinks I'm just a very silly little girl."

"I think you want him to think that, it's convenient." Holmes replied and she caught his eyes sharply so that he hurriedly turned his attention back toward his coffee. "Excuse me." He whispered, "It's just that…A woman like yourself, I can't imagine you're particularly happy in this setting. I just wonder if Mr. Norton realises what a cold environment will do to a person of such vibrancy."

"Bless you Ben, you've got a good heart." She put her hand forward and squeezed his arm, her eyes kind. "You're right; I did marry him because it was convenient. But when I met him in America he was a good man…Something about England changed him. It's why I want to hurry back. He was so much kinder when we were abroad. As for the way I act – well, he's a suspicious man, it's so much easier to avoid scrutiny if you play the innocent."

"But you are innocent, aren't you?" Holmes said lightly, "You don't look like you could hurt a fly."

She laughed at that, "Oh, well, I suppose not. But there is some cruelty about me, I'm sure. I've such a temper at times and I hurt people often when I lash out."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed, "I saw that when you sang yesterday, you were very passionate."

Her cheeks flushed with pleasure, "Music is the voice I can't use." She said, "Do you play anything, Ben?"

"Violin."

"Gracious – that's hard. Any good?"

"Awful." Holmes lied, thinking back to the grade eight exam he'd passed with a top distinction at the age of fifteen. "My father played but, ah- well, I never got the knack for it." Another lie, his father had no passion for music – his mother had played piano though, encouraging both of her boys to do the same in their junior years. "And you? Apart from your voice?"

"A dabbled in a few things, but singing is my passion. I like to act too though, very fond of that. I've taken a break from it, but I can't imagine it'll be long before I back on the stage."

"I look forward to seeing you there." Holmes said, all charm as he drank a little more of his coffee. "Do you mind if I open the window, I'm a little hot."

"Go right ahead – it's a bit stiff though." Irene warned as he stood and crossed toward the window and pushed it open. Sticking his head out he winking almost suggestively to his watchman below who stood, hands in pockets waiting for him. With a raise of her eyebrows, she gave him a dubious look in return and rolled her eyes, shaking her head as he quickly retracted himself and returned to Adler's side.

"So tell me more about yourself Irene."

"What is there to say?" She shrugged, sipping her coffee, "I've told you everything. Tell me something about yourself, Ben."

"What would you like to know?"

"Hm…Do you have any siblings?" She asked, extending the 'do' in thought.

"One brother." Sherlock knew that an inch of truth helped to make a lie more affective.

"What's his name?"

"Michael." He stated curtly and Irene raised her eyebrows.

"Oh dear, you don't get on with him – I can tell." She observed, "Tell me about your relationship."

Holmes sighed, "What's there to tell? He's a clever man – more so than me…In many ways he made me into what I am today."

"An editor?"

"Hah. No – a train-wreck."

"You're not a train-wreck Ben." Adler scolded kindly. "You're a sweetheart – that's what you are."

Sherlock sighed modestly, "That's kind of you to say…But I'm afraid it's not true. But, there's one thing I'll always have over my brother."

"What's that?"

"Energy." Holmes said, a burning satisfaction searing through him. "He's cleverer than I am, sharper too. Always ready to correct me, always ready to point out my mistakes, and no matter what happens he always has so much control…It infuriates me." He suddenly barked, losing himself in the truth, "He doesn't get bored, he doesn't suffer like I do and he enjoys the benefits of intellect without the hindrances that come with it. The madness. The solitude. The-" Holmes cut himself off. Mycroft was a bad, bad topic. "I'm sorry, we fell out recently…I suppose I'm just jealous of him. He's published you see, something which I never achieved, despite my pains…But at the end of the day I'm the one who reaches out and investigates, who has the energy to explore."

"Well that's what counts, if you ask me." Irene encouraged, "How can you say you've lived life if you're not experiencing it?"

'_Says the woman who lives in an apartment empty of all character and who never leaves the house__ aside from to do her job and meet her husband…' _thought Holmes, before adding with gleeful scepticism - _'Which all sounds remarkably like me, minus the husband part.'_

"I quite agree." He nodded, before gulping down several more mouthfuls of his coffee as he watched Adler carefully. "Look...Uh, I know this is a little…Presumptuous of me, but… can we exchange numbers?" He bit his bottom lip, expression one of innocent hopefulness. Irene regarded him and then, with a soft chuckle, nodded.

"Why not? It's nice to have a friend here in London, and you're very refreshing company Mr. Banks."

"Thank you, - Might I have your phone?" extended his hand and she gave it to him as he quickly went into her contacts, flicking through them. "Do you have any siblings?" He asked as he worked.

"Yes. Rosanna. She's nearing thirty now. Gracious…"

She was lying, Holmes had flicked through her entire contact list and saw no such person.

"Are you close?" He asked, filling in his number.

"Not in the least." She remarked, "We have different fathers – I've only met her once or twice."

Alright – perhaps she wasn't lying. Holmes groaned his teeth in frustration – any deductions he made about the woman were proved false in an instant, it was as if he kept turning a corner into a different, new street. The woman was impossible. Perhaps his first deductions of her hadn't been as misguided as he thought. She was too…normal.

"Here." He finished adding his number and called it so that his own phone rang. "Now I have yours."

"Great." Irene beamed, taking back her phone. "Have to warn you though – I'm a texting demon, so you'll never hear the end of me."

"It would be my pleasure to hear from you." Holmes saved the number to his own phone, before turning back to her. As he did he saw the first few lines of smoke edging in through the open window, until a cloud had gathered at the ceiling. He pretended not to notice and sniffed. "Can you smell burning?"

"Yes." Irene noted, before a shrill scream chorused from outside, causing them both to leap to their feet with a start.

"**Fire!"** The watchman from outside cried, **"Fire!"**

The word itself quickly spread through the occupancy of the street outside, until a terrible chorus of the word filled the area and Irene staggered back in a near faint, Holmes grabbing her quickly by the shoulders to straighten her. With a delayed cry the woman turned and darted from his grip into the corridor, moving away from the front door. He chased after here.

"Irene! Stop – we have to get out!" He called, his voice only adding to the urgency and severity of the situation so that Adler moved faster, tearing into a plain bedroom and rummaging through her draws desperately. Sherlock watched, heart in mouth as she produced from within it her passport and a single framed photograph. Clutching it to her chest she cradled it like a baby as Holmes grabbed her arm and dragged her outward, in a pretend panic.

"Come on! We have to get out!" He ordered as they entered the corridor which was filling with smoke – he'd quite forgotten the power of the smoke bombs.

Clutching Irene's shoulder he orientated her toward the door and hurriedly to the two escaped the house and ran out into the street.

As they touched down to the pavement Holmes nodded to his watchman who began to shout out to the confused gaggle. "It's fake! A false alarm! Those thugs are playing pranks! Don't call the fire brigade, call a Doctor – the couple must be frightened out of their wits!" She shouted as several onlookers investigated the cause of the smoke and declared that they were nothing but smoke bombs. Irene gave a small whimper of relief.

"Oh thank God." She whispered.

"It must have been those men from before." Holmes muttered before turning to Irene with a look of fury and grabbing her by her shoulders. "But you're lucky! What were you doing dawdling like that?" He demanded, "If that had been a real fire you could have killed yourself!"

Irene simply stared to him, her expression oddly shell shocked as her eyes widened a fraction more, as if this exclamation surprised her. Then she burst into tears.

"I'm sorry." She sobbed, and Sherlock blinked, taken aback – he had not expected such a violent explosion of emotion. Tactfully he looked around before, with a small cough, he put his arms out and allowed her to cry into his chest, her shoulders shaking with sobs and face hidden from sight. "I put you in danger too – Oh, I'm sorry. I just panicked." She cried as the gathering crowd came forward, offering assistance. Holmes thanked them, but sent them on their way, tightening his grip around Irene to show them all that everything was under control. "I'm sorry Mr. Banks."

"It's alright…I shouldn't have snapped. I was just…shocked." He pulled away from her and looked down to her tear stained face. Glancing down to the picture she hugged to her stomach he rolled his eyes. "And all that for a photograph? I thought you were getting jewels at least." He jibed, cracking his voice a little so that it appeared he was joking nervously. Irene giggled a little giddily and nodded, looking down to the hidden photo.

"I'm sorry…It's just that…Freddy is very…Protective over this photo. I know that sounds silly but he is – it's his soul and pride, I think. Once I thought I lost it and he…he was so angry." Her voice quivered a little, fear in her eyes. Holmes frowned, his stomach twisting with unease at the earnest terror in Irene's eyes.

"Well what's it of? His long lost parents? Surely he couldn't be in favour of you risking your life for it."

"Oh no…The photo's actually mine but…Well, I'm not sure. The first time I showed it to him was the first time we really…clicked. It's not important, it's just…a little reminder of a man I used to love. Freddy's become obsessed with it though – for a man who's always jealous of others giving me attention, he seems oddly pleased with my…former lover." She paused, "He was an important man though, so…maybe that's why. I'm not sure."

Thoughts began to whirl in Sherlock's head at these words and he watched Irene carefully, narrowing his eyes. "A former lover…Who?"

"Well…" Irene's gaze fell to the ground, "I can't really say, he's an important man and he's married now so…I wouldn't want to cause him trouble." She sniffed, before turning back to the house. "Oh Gods." She moaned, "It's going to be smoke filled." She blinked back another batch of tears, "And I left my keys inside, I'm locked out." Her expression began to crack again as she cried softly so that Holmes wasn't quite sure what to do. Finally he patted her lightly on the shoulder.

"Not a problem." He said, "The smokes clearing up – I'll climb through the window and open the door for you, alright?" He offered, "After all I probably brought this on you, if it was those thugs who threw the bombs. They were after me, and now you've been badly shocked. I'll sort it out, alright?"

She stared to him like he was the singular most wonderful man in the world and he gave her another 'shy' smile before turning and shinning his way up the wall toward the window. As he was already tall, and had done several rock-climbs in his time, the task was not overly difficult, and he slipped through Adler's window with relative ease.

Landing in her, now dark, kitchen he dusted himself down and made his way toward the door.

Opening it he bowed Adler inside with a charming smile and she bustled in and hugged him so tightly that Holmes half wondered if it was an assault against his ribs. He rarely hugged people, not because he disapproved per say, but because he rarely found himself in the situation where he would need to. Yet twice already today Alder had clung to him and he had held her firmly into his chest. Well, he had traumatized her after all, he supposed.

"Are you alright?" He asked and she looked up, her expression grateful.

"I am now. Sorry, I…My head wasn't on right." She shook her head slowly with a soft smile. "Thank you."

"No problem." Sherlock replied, his arms tightening a little around her without his ordering of them to do so. "It was the…least I could do."

"It was nice." She bit her bottom lip a little and he nodded slowly, his voice slurring slightly.

"Well, I had better…"

"Yes…" Adler agreed, a little breathless, and suddenly Holmes realised just how close they were, their faces inches from each other. He frowned internally – he was meant to be manipulating this woman for information, not allowing his body to do as it pleased. He focused sharply back to his task and looked away. Adler released him after a moment, sensing the change of mood.

"Are you sure you will be alright, Irene?" Holmes looked back to her, once more in the full swing of his act.

"I'll be fine…Freddy will understand…I'll just give him a call and get him over here."

"Alright." Sherlock caught her hand and squeezed her fingers. "Text me if you need anything, ok?"

"Ok." She breathed and Sherlock smiled to her once more before leaving the house and scurrying back into the road, directed a few officials who had come to investigate, toward the house. As he passed his watchman she raised her eyebrows in question and he winked to her again, hands in his pockets and mind set forward. There was a new twist to the case.

xXXXx

**Please review!**


	3. Chapter 3

**The last part of the three chapter ficlet. Please enjoy, and sorry for the delay in uploading. **

**Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes, or Lestrade, or Irene Adler. All OC are obviously mine though. Please enjoy!**

**Warning – Language, drug mention, ect. **

**Enjoy!**

**XxxxX**

Reaching Scotland Yard he once again all but skipped down the corridors toward Lestrade's office, ignoring the looks of shock and confusion from all he passed.

Reaching the man's office he once more caught him on the phone, and contented himself with cross-examining different items on the man's shelf, his back to the Inspector. Finally with a weary sigh Lestrade cut his call short and hung up.

"Trouble in paradise?" Holmes asked, without turning as he picked up a case file and flicked leisurely through it. Lestrade scoffed.

"My sister." He explained, "She and I have decided to hold a party for my mother's 80th, but finding a venue is turning out to be the biggest waste of my time. Neither of our houses are big enough, and everywhere I know is a rip off. So I'm stuck with wai…– What happened to your face?" Lestrade blinked in shock as the detective tuned back to him.

"Oh, this? Nothing." Sherlock waved it off, "Continue."

"Uh…" Lestrade blinked, slightly at loss, "Well – look, it doesn't matter." He shook his head, "I haven't had anything back about Fredrick Norton yet, but I should do soon."

"Excellent, I'm beginning to feel that this will be a huge bonus for the both of us." Sherlock sat down, putting his feet up again. "Would you be interested in having the party at a ball room?" He enquired lightly.

"What? I can't afford something like that – and, _Jesus_ Sherlock, your _face._" Lestrade leant in, eyes transfixed with morbid fascination, "It looks like someone grated it."

"The pavement and I had a disagreement."

"It was a pavement? Did you get into a fight with someone?"

"No, I was having a snooze outside and woke up awkwardly – of course I got into a fight." Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. "No harm done though."

"Says the man who looks like he got a cricket bat to the face. I honestly cannot believe you sometimes – I hope the offender was sufficiently guilty enough for you to jump him."

"They attacked me, actually."

"_They_!"

"Yes, it was a small group, and they all attacked me without any provocation."

"Did they really?" Lestrade asked doubtfully and Sherlock looked the other way, his arms folded. "Look, I'm sure you have some ridiculous reason for this, but at this point…I don't want to know. So unless you want me to press charges against whoever did that, I'm going to pretend that you tripped and fell. Alright?"

"That's too kind of you." Sherlock replied sarcastically, before adding, "And no need to press charges, I was entirely responsible for the attack – I put them up to it this morning."

"…You set an attack on yourself?" Lestrade blinked.

"Well, when you say it like that it all sounds _very _silly." Sherlock retorted with mock offense.

"You are the most incredible human being I have ever had the misfortune of meeting." Lestrade concluded and Sherlock chuckled.

"And you are the most predictable." He retorted lightly, before sitting up suddenly and dropping his legs from the other's desk. "My parents own a house down here, completely uninhabited now off course and rarely used – they much prefer the country. It's the perfect venue, and has a ball room just right for your mother's party. I can lend it to you, if you like, no charge."

Lestrade's mouth fell in disbelief, "What! I…Why!" He asked, perplexed.

"Why?" Sherlock chewed on the word for a moment, "Well, let's see. A - Because 80 is an important number, B – you have an extended family here in London, lots of cousins and second cousins, and the more you invite the merrier it will be – which, coincidentally I do believe is a saying of some sort… In any case I have a venue, you need a venue, I lose nothing by letting you use it, and you are able to do something deservedly special for Eliza's birthday if I do. As to why I am offering it at all it's simply because I like your mother." He smiled charmingly to Lestrade who was staring to him with an expression torn between hilarity and shock, "Problem?" He asked.

"I…Don't know what to say?"

"Then say nothing and find out about Fredrick Norton." Sherlock scribbled something quickly on a piece of paper and dropped it onto Lestrade's desk as he stood. "There's the address, I'll meet you there Saturday evening at five unless you hear from me. You can take a look and tell me if it…_takes_ your fancy." He smiled and exited, stepping into the corridor with a contented sigh as all around him people bustled about their inane lives. He stepped out into the current of the hallway, narrowly avoiding a collision with a small, mousy looking girl dressed in red. The female squeaked, dropping her head in fright.

"Afternoon, Mr. Holmes." She whispered tremulously.

"Afternoon." He replied curtly, readjusting his scarf as she hurried passed him, joining a gaggle of people in an open windowed office just as a sudden burst of laughter erupted from the group, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

Striding away he tucked his hands firmly into his pockets and thought deeply of his case, stopping only once to consider the itching thought of where he had heard that girl's voice before…

It was at thee O'clock the next morning that Holmes received a call from Mycroft telling him that the conditions of the Prince's blackmail had changed – Adler was now demanded money to be sent straight to her account or else the photo would be sent to his wife by the following afternoon. The Prince was both relieved and distraught at the news, and Sherlock assured Mycroft that everything was under control – he had to all but get the photograph. As for Adler's sudden urgent change of mind Sherlock was in no doubts as to the cause.

His suspicious were confirmed when, six hours later, a desperate call from Irene had him leaving his flat to meet her urgently.

Going to the designated Café, Sherlock saw Irene sat at the back in a corner, her head in her hands and shoulders hunched. He quickly joined her and she looked up to him with eyes red and raw from crying.

"Oh Ben." She began, the moment he had sat down, a sob raking through her as he took in her distraught appearance. "Please, you h-have to h-help me." She stuttered, fresh tears spilling from her eyes as Sherlock leant in.

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

"It's Freddy." At the mention of his name she gave a muffled wail, sobbing hard. "He's gone!"

"Gone?" Holmes blinked aghast, excitement burning behind the surface of his façade.

Irene gave a pained nod. "That's right." She sniffed, "Last night…I told him about how I'd met you and…he was so angry. I'd never seen him that upset. He kept telling me I'd ruined everything, but he wouldn't explain what I'd done…So we argued. In the end he stormed out and I thought that…I thought that he just needed to cool down. So…So I just went to the Opera House to sing and…When I came back he still wasn't there. So I went to bed thinking he'd be back by today but…When I woke up I found that he'd cleared all of his things…" She choked, "He's gone Ben! He left me! He took everything. His cupboard is empty, all his things are gone and…" She hiccupped, "He even took that dumb photograph with him!" She broke out into fresh sobs, burying her face in her arms and giving Holmes a moment to smile triumphantly before he put a hand out to her.

"Where could he have gone?" He asked, "A friends house?"

"Oh no…If it was just a friends house I wouldn't have bothered you about it Ben." Irene's hands gripped with anger, "He's left the country."

"Left the country?"

"Yes." She nodded, "I…I checked my computer this morning to see if he'd emailed, or something and I found on my history that he'd checked in for a flight to America this morning." She sniffed. "His flight was at four O'clock."

"Four O'clock." Sherlock repeated. "I understand…"

"What should I do?"

"Go home." Sherlock replied, "Go home and call your bank. If you and he have a conjoined account then lock him out of it, if you can."

Irene blinked, startled. "Why?"

"Because your husband is a criminal." Sherlock replied, "And he has been conning you from the start."

Irene stared to him, open mouthed as his phone began to ring. "I…Sorry, I don't-"

"- It doesn't matter, just do as I say." Holmes slipped the phone from his pocket and read the text with a satisfied chuckle.

"Who are you?" Irene asked in a whisper, her eyes wide and fearful as Sherlock squeezed her hand again, a gentle smile on his face as he stood.

"Go home Irene, soon you'll understand everything." He turned and left, excitement jumping through him as he sped into the street. Turning down the road he called Lestrade back, the phone wringing a grand total of two times before the other answered.

"Got your text. Who is he?" Sherlock asked, stalked hurriedly down the street.

"His name's John Clay, and you were right – he is a bit a bit of criminal. I've got him down for just about everything – drug dealing, human trafficking, murder, grand theft – he's a walked wanted sign."

"Then you're in luck." Sherlock remarked, "Because he just boarded a flight to America, New Jersey at four O'clock this morning. If you hurry then when he arrives he'll have quite the welcoming committee to great him."

"You're joking." Lestrade laughed, and Sherlock heard him straighten in his chair.

"Not in the least Inspector. Now why don't you get on the phone to the authorities in America and ask if they won't take him from your hands." Sherlock hung up with a click and continued down the street, a well earned grin adorning his pale, satisfied face as he called his brother Mycroft, telling him to have his contacts abroad do a thorough check of John Clay's bags – the photograph would be there waiting for them when they did.

XxxxX

Twenty-four, satisfyingly relaxing hours later John Clay had been arrested and was awaiting trial, Lestrade had been given the credit for his capture, and Sherlock sat, lounged on his sofa, with a self-satisfied smirk as he played his violin lightly, ignoring the amazed demands of the Inspector as to how on earth he had tracked the criminal.

"Lestrade." He finally said, "Enjoy the popularity you have earned, I won't tell you a single thing."

"Come on Sherlock – I did next to nothing to catch that man, all I did was find out who he was."

"And I had no idea of his identity when I referred him to you. You caught the criminal Inspector, I simply pointed you in the right direction."

Lestrade sighed, watching the other man, "Oh you're enjoying this." He accused, "I can see it in your face – you're _really_ enjoyed this."

"Of course I am." Sherlock replied lightly, "Because you're never going to figure out how I did it."

Lestrade gave a low laugh at this smug comment just as Sherlock's phone began to ring. He examined it leisurely for a moment before answering, swinging his bow lightly through the air as if conducting. Mycroft spoke from the other side.

"Sherlock, there's been a problem." He sounded grave.

"Oh dear, someone else stolen it?" He asked, giving a soft, but by no means distressed sigh.

"No. You made a mistake."

Sherlock paused, and then sat up a little, dropping his violin bow as his eyes gazed forward, his back erect and stiff with the keenness of a listening dog. "What?" He demanded softly.

"Clay doesn't have the photograph, we've searched everywhere."

"That…No, that can't be right. Are you sure you've looked everywhere?" He asked urgently.

"Absolutely certain. The Prince is with me now. He wants to know if you have any solution to this _problem_."

Sherlock didn't respond for a long moment, his eyes wide as coins, and then he spoke quickly. "Meet me at Bond St. We might still make it in time." He ordered, leaping to his feet as he ended the call. For a brief moment he stood looking around as if he were gathering his thoughts from the floor, before his eyes caught with Lestrade's and he simply asked, "May I borrow your car?"

XxxxX

Lestrade, who had been totally adverse to the idea of giving Sherlock the keys to his one and only form of transportation, dropped him off at Piccadily without more than several demanding questions and a fierce quarrel of human rights.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, and tugging his scarf chokingly tight around his neck Holmes stalked quickly toward Adler's house, spotting his brother's car parked down the opposite pavement. He wasted no time signalling to the two passengers within it, turning his attention to picking the lock of Irene's door. A deep sense of foreboding was setting into him, but he couldn't deny that there was also a strange euphoric excitement leaping through him too. He was joined by his other two companions when the door clicked open and together they entered the white washed flat.

Diving through it Sherlock wasted no time as he lunged into the woman's bedroom. The bed was stripped of all sheets, and the room was empty of everything personal but for a single photograph frame sat upon the dresser. Holmes approached it cautiously, ignoring the other two men who followed him into the room.

Bellow the photograph another was sat beneath it, sliced into elegant cubes, and pieced together again like a puzzle. The Prince gave a sharp exclamation.

"That's it! That is the photograph!" He cried, before gathering the cut pieces into a pile and shoving them hurriedly into his pocket. Sherlock did not move, or even breath for that matter, his eyes set forward to the neat square of space that the photograph and previously occupied below the frame. He had been conned. The thought struck him like a blow to the stomach.

Glancing up he observed the remaining photograph in the frame. It was a headshot of Alder in all her glory, a picture of the essence of her soul. And how powerful she looked staring from the frame toward him, how hawk like her eyes were.

And suddenly Holmes could see it all, the entire thing flashing before him like a movie in its reel.

It had been Adler who had approached Clay, knowing his real identity. She had played the innocent and planted the idea of blackmail into his head, perhaps drunkenly mentioning the photograph. She had agreed to marry him, to conjoin their bank accounts and had pretended to be oblivious as he had blackmailed the Prince in her name. She had manipulated his actions, and even his thoughts, so that he never realised that she was controlled him as easily as he thought he did her. Then Holmes had intervened and she had figured out who he was. She had mentioned it to Clay and watched as he had fled in fright, leaving her. Then all she had to do was set Holmes after her husband and escape herself while everybody looked the other way. As for the photograph – it didn't matter any more, Adler wasn't interested. She had all of Clay's money now, which was probably more than the diamond was worth – They'd combined their bank accounts when they had married after all. She'd probably found the means to move every penny Clay had ever stolen, conned and earned through his numerous misdeeds and moved it into her private account, locking her husband out just as Sherlock had suggested.

So now she was rich, had escaped difficulty with the Prince and had done it all without even breaking the law. Her photograph seemed to laugh at him, her eyes alight with mischief. Sherlock was applauding her before he could register what he was doing, his hands clapping vigorously together so that the Prince looked to him strangely, clearly confused. The Detective looked around to him with a smile, unable to stop the strange thrill burning through him – he'd been conned, conned in the most beautiful way. She had left him what he had been commissioned to seek, but had taken what he had always actually desired – victory. That clever, _clever_ woman!

"Mr. Holmes." The Prince said, "You have done what no others were able to. Name your price, what can I give you to thank you for what you've done?"

"You've paid me more than enough…there is only one thing I desire." He admitted and the Prince raised his eyebrows.

"What is it!" He cried enthusiastically as Sherlock took the framed photograph of master-mind Irene Adler from the dresser and tucked it under his arm.

"This photograph." He said, and then slipped passed the Prince without a second glance and left the house, hailing a cab from the main road.

XxxxX

Lestrade had ended up deciding to use the Holmes' hall for Eliza's birthday in the end. Sherlock had sent him the keys and had thought nothing more of it until the man himself had all but forced his way into the Detective's flat and demanded that they talked in person since the telephone had been quite avidly ignored. Sherlock, who hadn't left his room in days, had been so surprised by the Inspector's presence and demands, that he had seriously inquired as to whether the man was a hallucination or not, and had subjected him to severe testing and mental scrutiny before he was satisfied that the other was real.

Lestrade had come to invite him in person to Eliza's birthday celebration which was going to be held the following evening, the theme being 'A black-tie ball with lots and lots of guests, all of whom were bringing some form of food to contribute to the event'. Sherlock had laughed so heartily at the invitation that he had neared affixation at one given moment before he'd realised that the Inspector was being quite serious. When Holmes, perplexed beyond belief, had enquired as to why on _earth_ anyone would want him to attend such an important party Lestrade had simply replied – 'Because my mother likes you too.'

And so it was that Holmes found himself greeting Eliza the following evening, dressed immaculately and once more not appearing as a man who'd spent several days enclosed in the confines of his bedchamber experimenting with cocaine and talking to inanimate objects as way of entertainment.

Having avoided entering his own London Home for several years it was quite shocking to see it filled with such lively characters. The atmosphere went from Aristocratic to warm and Holmes listened, with vague interest to the amateur band which had been set up. Several couples were already dancing and Sherlock had no doubt that the occupation would be become steadily more popular as the night rolled on.

Putting his fingers together he observed them all, ignoring the slight twinge in the crook of his arm. Lestrade came and stood beside him, eyeing the young man.

"So this is where you were brought up, eh?" He questioned.

"No." Sherlock replied, "My parents inherited it more recently. I rarely came." He replied coolly, so that Lestrade dropped the subject just as quickly as he had brought it up.

"You're not much of a…socialite, are you?" He asked and Sherlock resisted the need to laugh at this statement as he stared up the chandeliered ceiling.

"I'm glad I could come." He said evenly, after a moment, in way of a response, "It's good for me – being here that is."

"Well my mothers pleased to see you here in any-case."

"Of course – she only hears the best of me after all." Sherlock became almost bitter, taking a long sip of wine. "Regardless," He muttered, "I'm glad to see she's enjoying her evening."

Lestrade nodded, shooting Sherlock another look so that the man glanced openly back to him, eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"Nothing." Lestrade replied.

"It's not nothing – what?"

"I'm just…Trying to figure you out." Lestrade looked ahead, "And before you say 'don't bother you won't be able to' in some brain numbingly complex way, there's no need - I give up. I don't understand you one bit."

Sherlock chucked, smiling almost sadly to himself. "I don't blame you." He said slowly.

Lestrade sighed, "Can't be fun though." He observed quietly, "Can it?"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." Sherlock remarked cheerily, placing his glass down. "But, as you so formally noted, you don't have a chance of understanding that."

"Right." Lestrade said dejectedly.

"Right." Sherlock straightened his cuffs, "So go and find another guest to talk to, and lighten your mood." He glanced up, "You're far too serious for this kind of party."  
"And you're not?"

"I don't need to be." Sherlock said a smug smile on his face as Lestrade sighed, realising that he was being dismissed with this gesture. He shrugged and returned to his sister's side at the other side of the ball as Sherlock turned, once more, back to the dancers.

"Excuse me, are you Sh-…Sherlock Holmes?"

He looked around to perceive a very young girl staring up to him with a pair of almost startled eyes. He observed her dispassionately and nodded so that she put up her hands and motioned he take a small piece of paper from within her grasp. He did so and she scurried away without another word, leaving the man to watch after her with dull interest.

Looking down to the note he opened it and raised his eyebrows. It simply read (25, 18, N). He raised his eyebrows and looked all around for the girl before looking directly ahead of him and measuring the length of the walls around. For a moment he paused, looked toward a window high up to his left, and then back down to the note in his hands. He took a few steps back against the wall and then walked forward, measuring each stride so that, 25 metres later he was stood in the centre of the dancers. He then took several steps to his left, looking up the window, until he was stood direct bellow the chandelier, hidden from sight by all the couples milling around. He paused, staring up to the window, and then spoke.

"You are a very clever woman." He commented, feeling the soft vibration of someone laugh directly behind him, their back to his.

"Why thank you, you certainly aren't short off the mark either."

Her accent had changed, losing any America hint, but Sherlock knew it none the less – The girl from the police station, and, more importantly, one Irene Adler.

He looked around to her and she smiled up to him, turning also so that they were face to face, stood still in the centre of a swirling storm of dancers.

She had dyed her hair again, back to a more original colour Sherlock guessed, considering the shade of her eyebrows. The dark mahogany curls suited her much better and complimented her pale, spotless complexion. The two spots of pink upon her cheeks which he had seen previous were no longer there, so that the angle of her cheek bones became more prominent and her face became slightly thinner. She looked hauntingly beautiful, having lost all essence of her previous cuteness and revealed the powerful, hidden woman beneath. She was taller than Sherlock recalled too, though that was more likely due to a pair of delicate heals she wore beneath her wine-coloured floor length dress. "Are you surprised?" She asked, her voice soft, and a little deeper now, sultry and sensual.

"You've transformed yourself quite amiably."

"Then you approve?"

"It's not my place to disapprove or to approve." Sherlock replied curtly, but he was smiling faintly, an expression which was mirrored by her. "You're quite a little actress."

"You're not half-bad yourself. A little too determined though, no patience. You should have spent longer just chatting with me, gotten to know me a bit better, would have made you more credible."

"Why would I need to be credible?" Sherlock raised his eyebrow with scrutiny, "I needed to find out the location of the picture – that was all that concerned me. And for that I played you superbly, just as you then played me."

"I suppose." Irene paused, "And when we nearly kissed, were you playing me then too?"

"Oh, is that what it was?" Sherlock mused with disinterest, "I wasn't really paying attention." He paused, "When was it you figured out who I was?"

"Well, I'd been warned about you, but I didn't suspect a thing until I realised how I had exposed myself during the 'fire'. So I threw you onto Clay's scent as a precaution, and then followed you to the Police Station in disguise. From there it became very clear to me who you were and what I should do."

"Brilliant." Holmes complimented, "Really quite brilliant. You had me, honestly, fooled."

"You had me fooled too, 'Benjamin Banks'. In-fact… I think this is the first time we've actually met each other properly without disguise."

Sherlock smirked again. "Then I suppose we should treat it as a new beginning. Sherlock Holmes." He introduced.

"Irene Adler." She replied softly, "It's a pleasure to finally meet you."

"The pleasure is all mine."

For a moment they stood in silence, searching one another, going completely unnoticed by the gaggle who milled obliviously around them and then Adler spoke again.

"Well," She said lightly, "Now that we're properly introduced, shall we dance, Sherlock Holmes?" She extended out a single, long fingered hand and he took it, allowing her fingers to curl over his own as they moved closer together. With his eyes never leaving her face he put a hand to her waist, below the curve of her ribcage as she lightly placed her hand on his shoulder.

Then they began to dance, moving elegantly into the mesh of the crowd and disappearing amongst them. But they were apart from all the other couples, quite on their own as they gazed down to each other, each step filled with energy, each thought contrary and burning until a fire was ignited between them. Because she was everything that he hated, and so much…More.

And as they danced amongst the flurry of dresses Holmes gazed to her and felt an unusual ease, because although she could take everything from him, but he had nothing to lose with her.

"You know," Adler began as they danced, "When we almost kissed, despite what you think, I wasn't playing you Sherlock, and I don't think you weren't playing me either."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this statement, casting his mind back to the event as they twirled, Irene's red dress swishing behind as the world spun, forgotten by the two. Because Irene wasn't lying, Sherlock knew this, a kiss wouldn't have been unnecessary for his case, even the build up of one, and Holmes knew that Irene had already heard the truth from his own lips. After all, you can't play a person and pay no attention at the same time.

And so, as the music blurred into a maddening jig, the dancers all around twisting blindly through their lives, Sherlock Holmes leant down and met Irene Adler's lips, giving her his silent reply.

XxxxX

**Epilogue – The Woman **

In the months that followed Sherlock continued with his passion for mystery, approaching it with more zeal and energy than ever before as he slowly built himself a repertoire of successes. Scotland Yard grew to both loath and respect him as they had never done before, until Sherlock found himself taking part in most of their larger investigations, Lestrade always at his side to remind him to be civil.

As for Irene Adler, she had taken flight shortly after their dance and had left the country to enjoy the spoils of her efforts. Sherlock found that rather than miss her he enjoyed the silence she left in her wake, and the possibilities she had never quite cut.

And so it was that often, in times of frustration, or over arrogance Holmes would look upon her picture to remind himself of the one who had conned him, the one who had gotten away. And as the years went by and he sometimes saw her briefly across the street, or through the window of a shop, it came to pass that he titled her. So from those days forward to Sherlock Holmes, Irene Adler became and would always be 'The Woman.'

XxxxX

**Fin. **

**Thank you everybody who has read this and I hope that you all enjoy it and please look out for the sequel of Hydrochloric Coffee which I should be posting soon. Thanks for your time! Please review. **


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